The coquettish smile faded at the scowl he turned upon her face.
"Madame, where is Van Zandt?" he blurted out, brusquely.
It was no wonder she had been such a star upon the dramatic stage. Her puzzled air, the wondering glance of her bright, dark eyes, were perfect.
"Monsieur—Van Zandt!" she repeated, in gentle wonder. "How should I know? I assure you he has not been here since last night."
"Yes, I know," impatiently. "But what happened to him last night? Did Remond kill him here, at your door, where I found the pool of blood when I came back to look for him?"
Her eyes flashed.
"Ah, then it was you, monsieur, that carried off poor Remond's bride?" with a low laugh of amusement.
"Answer my question, if you please, Madame Lorraine," sternly. "Tell me—did Remond kill our young Yankee friend last night?"
Madame threw back her handsome head, and laughed heartlessly.
"Ma foi, how can I tell? When I saw the two fools were fighting desperately, I ran in, locked my door, and went to bed. Mon Dieu, I did not want to be a witness in a murder trial!"